More than anything, and most of all
by wholockedcumberbitch
Summary: John is cut up over Sherlock's 'death' and can't stay away from inevitable suicide any longer. A surprise Sherlock saves him. (Awful description, I'm never good at those. Rather cutesy)


It's been three years and I can't get his face out of my head. I miss him more than I ever knew I would.

Is it all my fault? Was it my fault he killed himself?

I know, I know though, that he never once told me a lie, and I believe in him. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

My best friend, my companion, the head to my heart, my…the only person I think I ever truly loved…love. Present tense. I still love him. The only person I love, the only person I will ever love.

I still love him and I always will, I will always love every little piece of him. Every ignorant, antisocial, impatient bit. The stray hairs, that infuriating coat collar, always turned up, the ever-high cheekbones. The way he'd steeple his hands below his chin when he was thinking.

I still see him, hear him, and smell him around the flat. Am I insane?! Probably!

I can see him now, standing at the window looking out onto the moonlit street. His unearthly pallor and shadowed hollows, beautiful against his flawless complexion. A mane of soft, black curls framing his long face, two bright blue beacons of light shining out, pale blue and green.

I just want to reach out and run my fingers through him hair, stroke his face, feel his touch again. Tell him the words I always should have. Press my ugly, ordinary lips against his angular, yet soft, Cupid's bow ones.

Oh GOD I'm going mad! I can't do this anymore.

I need to be with him. He is where I cannot find him. I need to be with him.

If I could just hear his low, purring voice once more. Fuck, I would give anything, anything at all just to be with him again. I was so alone when I met him, and he brought happiness back into my life. Yeah, it was unconventional. And FUCK, it wasn't perfect, but we were happy. I was happy. And now? Now I'm all alone. Again.

I hate him, so much for leaving me. Maybe it was for the best, because maybe he was destroying me. Maybe I'm better off without him. Everything back to normal. Back to being lonely.

Who the fuck am I kidding. Am I trying to convince myself?

I love him so much. I need him, I need to be with him. Please, please just let this stop.

The bottle of sleeping pills is glinting at me, sitting on the table where I left them. I get nightmares, every single night, I have to take the pills.

But now my days are turning into nightmares. I can't tell the difference between what's real and what's in my imagination. It scares me. It scares me to the point of panic attacks, to the point of being sick, throwing up nothing. Because I can't eat anymore. Can't sleep. Can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't think. Can't live.

Mycroft tries to speak to me, tries to offer some sort of counseling but I'm better off without it. Nobody understands. Only Sherlock. Only ever Sherlock.

I ripped out the cameras that Mycroft had installed in the flat. I've not gone out since. Don't need to.

Mrs. Hudson, oh my love, Mrs. Hudson. She tries to feed me, tries to talk to me, but I can't. I can't talk to her about what happened, because she wasn't IN LOVE WITH HIM.

My dear Mrs. Hudson. I am so sorry for everything I've caused. So, so sorry.

My waking days are slowly turning into nightmares. Infecting my brain with the vision of the man I loved..-love, crumpled, covered in blood, broken on the cold, hard ground. His empty blue eyes staring up at me.

"Oh god no, please, he's my friend, please."

They wouldn't let me near him. Only later, in the morgue, did I get to see him one last time.  
I cried and cried. I couldn't walk. I couldn't breathe. Greg tried to help, but all I wanted to do was sit and tell Sherlock the things I'd never had the courage to say.

I held onto his hand, but when I finally had to go, I laid a soft kiss onto his forehead and whispered those three words.

"I love you."

I have to be with him and if the only way is being…dead, then maybe I should just end it now. End it now and be with him again.

* * *

John picked up the sinister pill bottle, stared at it with empty eyes that were once so full of storm.

Gaunt, dark shadows were under his eyes; his face now thin from not eating, not sleeping.

He had new scars that he had made himself without thinking, with a knife; on his hands, on his arms.

Sherlock's heart was pounding; he had just got back from hunting down Moriarty's army, and had only just heard of John's deteriorating condition.

Had only just realised how much he meant to the kind hearted Army Doctor.

Had only just realised how he needed to tell John he loved him, now. Right now.

He ran up the stairs to 221B Baker Street and heard sobs from the living room; Sherlock burst through the door and rushed to John's side. He had a handful of sleeping pills, they had now been scattered all over the floor.

Sherlock held John's face in his hands, and John sobbed even harder.

"You're not real! GET OUT OF MY HEAD, I need to be with you for real Sherlock. None of this is real. I love you. I need you. Now.

Please just come back. I miss you. Please…Please" His words were stuttered and broken. Tears streaming down his face, and tears welling in Sherlock's eyes.

"John… John, Listen to me. I'm here, I'm real. I promise you, I'm here. I'm sorry." Everything was whispered, everything was fast, all his words were mixed up, and Sherlock could only hope that what he was saying made sense.

John's heart had stopped, his breathing ceased. Deep blue eyes opened wide with shock, and confusion. He fell to his knees, but before he hit the ground, Sherlock scooped him up into his long, slim arms.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Those simple, three words being repeated over and over again into John's ear.

That voice, Sherlock's low, purring voice. It wasn't a hallucination anymore. It was real.

John could feel anger bubbling in his chest. Unwanted anger. His deep blue eyes had become stormy once again, and a look of complete rage settled on his usually kind face. "YOU WERE DEAD, SHERLOCK. DEAD. GONE. What the fuck do you think you're doing? ARE YOU EVEN REAL? I love you, I do love you but I fucking can't stand you right now. You left me for so long. Did you fucking FAKE YOUR DEATH OR SOMETHING?" His face fell, tears streaming down his face, anger was replaced by tidal waves of relief and love, confusion, and a deep need for Sherlock that he couldn't even imagine putting into words.

"Please, just tell me what's going on. You left me, for so long. I was going to kill myself, all to be with you again. I love you, I missed you. I need you so much it hurts. Please…please." His voice had descended into a broken whisper.

Sherlock placed the broken man back on his feet and John buried his damp face into the warm crook of Sherlock's neck.

The scent. John remembered Sherlock's scent so vividly. It was comforting John to no end. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's pale, smooth neck. And Sherlock's around John's muscular waist. The weak sobs of both men were ricocheting around one another's body.

Those three words still being hurriedly repeated by both men into each other's veins. Trying to put it permanently into another body, planting it in the blood of the other.

Their bodies entwined. Head and heart, connected again.

"Before I explain, can I do the one thing I've been wanting to do for so long?" Sherlock asked.

John looked into his eyes and trusted this man, despite everything, so he nodded.

He felt soft lips crushing onto his, tasted blood, tasted Sherlock.

Aggressive, hungry kisses being exchanged. Missing mouths and catching noses and jaws. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. They were together again and they loved each other.

John recoiled and grasped Sherlock's beautifully angular face. He felt the hot prick of tears in his eyes again. Just the sight of Sherlock made his knees go weak, made his heart beat faster, and no doubt made his already dilated pupils, dilate even more. His chest heaving, raking in breathes.

"I feel like I can breathe again. I feel like my heart is finally beating again. I need you to fix me completely. Sherlock. Please?" John's watery eyes pleading with Sherlock's love filled face.

Sherlock planted a soft kiss onto John's once blonde, now greying hair.

"I will fix you, and I promise you; I am never leaving you alone again. Those three years were the worst years of my life. You are my heart John, you keep me sane."

Sherlock dragged John into his room with exhausted, whimpering snuffles. Flopped onto the bed and pulled John beside him.

They lay connected, toe to forehead, looking into one another's eyes. They were hungrily kissing, now their lips were just brushed together, sending waves of electricity through their entwined bodies.

Fluttering eyelashes rested upon soft cheeks and shallow breathes passed between lungs.

John noticed how exhausted Sherlock was, and noticed how he was asleep. The army doctor took this precious time to memorise every detail of Sherlock's face, the sweet scent that was emitted from every single pore on his body, every dark, curled hair on his head. John inhaled everything and knew he was, finally, not alone.

The now sleepy army doctor pressed a comforting kiss to Sherlock's sleeping lips and whispered "I love you." into Sherlock's mouth, wrapped his arms tighter around the detectives slim frame and closed his eyes.

John had no nightmares that night, all because Sherlock was next to him. Sherlock always slept with John now, and this had cured the night terrors that once wrecked havoc with John's brain. The one or two last night terrors that John had had been instantly stopped by Sherlock's sharp perceptions, and soft lips, and sweet whispers; all reminding John that he would never be completely alone again.

Sherlock had nightmares too sometimes, but didn't tell John, as when he woke up, the sleeping man next to him looked so peaceful he didn't want to interrupt.

Sherlock knew though; Sherlock knew he was fixing John, and John was fixing him in return.

The fleeting glances, the holding of hands, the entwining of bodies, the sweet kisses, and the hungry ones.

They all reminded Sherlock of two things; 1. Never to leave this beautiful man alone again and 2. Sherlock was loved by John, more than anything and most of all.


End file.
